The instructions on the box said to leave the dye on for half an hour. She has just under two hours until her date so does a quick mental calculation of how long it will take for her to rinse out the dye, shampoo, then rinse again. She still needs to shave her legs and under her arms. If she does this properly using the foam taking careful, even strokes, this will take at least five minutes. She considers shaving her bush then decides against it; it is only a first date after all, skipping this will save her some time. The clingfilm is tacky where her forehead has started to sweat. She kicks herself for not applying the pungent hair removal cream to her upper lip before getting into the bath, the one that smells and feels like burning skin. She will have to do that once she gets out, wait six minutes, wipe it off then wait another fifteen minutes for redness to calm down before she can apply any makeup. One more thing, she thinks, eat. She puffs her cheeks out as she sighs, her head tilted all the way back, eyes lifted towards the Rorschach of black mould colonising the ceiling causing the bulk of her hair to pull the clingfilm further back. The base of her neck throbs against the edge of the bathtub, eyes watering. She lifts her head up slightly and with her dry hand, teases the edge of the clingfilm back down using the thumb and fingers which aren’t gripping her lit cigarette. She refocuses on her pre-date routine to distract her mind from what is in the water with her. Shave, rinse, shampoo, eat.
On a stool beside the bathtub sits her phone, a coarse towel, a dented packet of Marlboro, her lighter and a half-eaten packet of wafer-thin ham. The yellow reduced sticker glares with a date from three date ago, a sharp sweetness cutting through the artificial smoky scent. Three more empty packets, plastic husks beneath the stool. She takes a deep pull on her cigarette, a glare of lava orange and snapping twigs, then exhales a steady plume from the side of her mouth. She flicks fag ash onto the soggy bathmat that licks the floor like a thick, wet tongue. Grabbing her phone to check the time, she notices a message from him: Can’t w8 2CU! x
His name is Lawrence but goes by ‘Laurie’. He is divorced with no children, enjoys cooking, gaming and the outdoors. They matched a fortnight ago on an app then progressed to phone calls after a day of messaging. At 35, he is 15 years her junior, but he believes she is only a little older than him. His signature dish is roast chicken, he told her during their first phone call. He went into detail about the importance of his method, how he stuffed the chicken with a beer can, described how it fell off the bone. She didn’t mention the fact that she is vegetarian, just waited for the conversation to turn from eating to mouths, to tasting, to licking until it was clear that neither of them was talking about chicken anymore. His profile picture on the dating app is of him standing on a balcony at sunset, clearly on holiday, his face flushed, peeling pink on the bridge of his nose. The hair on his head is cropped short and very dark, his beard a shock of auburn. He appears to have a solid build, so much so that when she first saw his profile picture, she was reminded of a fridge freezer. She wonders if it was taken by his wife when they were still together. In other pictures uploaded to his profile he is dressed as Harry Potter at what appears to be a stag do; he is sweaty in a black tank top taking a mirror selfie at the gym; he is in a football shirt flanked by two friends on match day. She reads the message again, and thinks, yes, he will be enough. She opens the app, swipes until she finds a filter she likes then takes a selfie and types out three kisses, deletes two of them, then sends it.
A fly buzzes fatly above her head. She tracks its meandering progress towards the window where it slips out through the open crack at the top. The rotting window frame has expanded in the early autumn heatwave and itches with woodworm. She is convinced she can hear a static crackle as the bugs agitate the wood, imagines it getting so hot that the wood splits, spilling woodworm like ink across the faded puce tiles, the puce sink, the puce toilet. Pulling her free hand from the water, she pats her head checking to ensure the taut film is secure and hasn’t torn in places, oily black dye oozing against the plastic as she does so. Next time, she thinks, I’ll try blonde. She takes a pull from the cigarette then tosses it towards her feet enjoying the hiss as it hits the water. Her hand hovers above the packet of ham. I can’t, she thinks, then moments later – eat. She peels a slice away from the rippling stack. It trembles inches from her mouth, a glistening sheen of opalescent green ghosting the pink. She takes two quick breaths and shoves the slice into her mouth, counting one, two, three chews, then swallows. She presses two fingers against her lips and keeps very still, waiting for the nausea to pass. She reaches beside her to the stool for the packet of Malboro, taps out another cigarette, places it in her mouth and sparks up.
She shifts to get comfortable but fails, her stomach an aching bloat. She doesn’t like to look directly at it so stares that the tap instead, the metronome spatter on her ankle. She hates the way it feels on her. It clings thinly to her breasts, her belly and the tops of her thighs that rise from the water like an archipelago. It lies impotent above the water, but between her legs it transforms from sticky and dense into something diaphanous, resembling silk, almost elegant in the way it undulates, repulsing her all the more. When it touches her skin like this, she can hear it. It isn’t a voice or even sounds that she hears but thoughts landing fully formed in her mind which she knows are not her own. Only a month ago the base of the pedestal began sprouting fungus. The greyish-pink frills went unnoticed at first but within a week they took on the appearance of thin curling cartilage, stacked upon one another lining the base of the sink in a fleshy collar. A few taps on her phone revealed that it fed on the rotting floorboards, dust, dead skin, hair. The fungus reminded her then of the thing in the bath with her. She tried once to get rid of it, stamping at the fungus with a slippered foot, clumps scattering across the floor like severed pigs’ ears. She gathered them up and flushed them. They grew back. She wouldn’t use bleach, not after what happened before. A long while back when she realised what it would take to maintain the thing in the bath, she tried once to rid herself of it. She emptied a bottle of bleach into the water with it and within seconds, was pressing the heels of her palms tightly over her ears. She heard its piercing wail inside her head without even needing to touch it.
Having her head angled all the way back for so long has brought on the beginning of a dull throb pulsing at her temple and jaw. The bare electric bulb screaming light into the bathroom isn’t helping, she ought to turn it off. She doesn’t move, though, as this would mean having to remove the thing from her and somehow that seems worse that when she lifts it from the catering sized margarine tub filled with cold, black tea, unfolding it and placing it onto herself. She will pay for leaving the light on later when she is sat opposite her date, struggling to catch the string of words falling from his mouth because it will feel like half of her brain is on fire, her molars pulsing so deeply she fears they will burst and crack her teeth from within. It will feel so bad that she’ll fantasise about pulling them out with her hands or drilling a small hole above her eyebrow to let the pain pour out of her like pus. The thought bubbles up like a blister: it had been a gift. She ought to be grateful for everything it had given her. She wills herself to push past the ache in her head and transmit a feeling close to gratitude to mask her disgust.
When she was a teenager, slicking her lips in grape scented gloss and dreaming of being anyone else besides herself, her best friend Maja told her she had something to give her. They were best friends by default owing to the fact that they were each other’s only friend. Since they hadn’t chosen each other yet clung to one another nonetheless, at times, she wasn’t sure if Maja even liked her. Yet here Maja stood, speaking to her of a gift and how it had to be kept secret.
Her mind cycled between items they coveted, surely stolen, hence the secrecy. She barely masked her disappointment when that lunchtime as they loitered behind the canteen, Maja told her that the gift was a flower, a white flower and you’ve got to feed it tea, no milk, but make sure it’s completely cooled down before you feed it, ok? Maja spoke to her hands picking at the frayed skin at the corners of her bitten nails. This flower, Maja said speaking down at her hands, it’s special. Special how? she asked her. It’s just special, it can do things, give you things, like, anything you want. She studied Maja and her busy fingers that ripped a thin strip of skin from her nail bed, the wet berry beads that followed. It had started to rain, the smell of fresh soil cutting through the warm waft of school dinners that blew out of the vent in the wall that Maja leant against. Maja’s face aimed towards her shoes exposing blonde hair darkened by grease, parted at the centre, a smattering of dry flakes. What, like it makes wishes come true or something? she asked. Maja stopped fidgeting and looked up. Yeah, exactly.
The following day Maja waited until after school to hand over a blue plastic bag containing a small margarine tub. The liquid inside the tub sloshed all the way home and as soon as she was back in her bedroom, she lent a chair against the door handle the way she used to when her mother had another close friend from her school days stay over. Her mother had a few of these friends stay over, men who used all the hot water the next day. Men she’d find in the kitchen the next morning opening and slamming cupboards. Men who pulled a chair out with a scrape then sat open legged with nothing on but a damp towel. Men whose gaze, languid and muculent dripped from face, seeping through her Muppets nightie to her body, a tight bud on the cusp of bloom. Alone in her room, she popped open the lid of the margarine tub revealing a brown pool of stale tea and something creamy floating on the surface. It looked nothing like a flower, and she wondered why Maja had described it as such. She didn’t know what it was but could sense it pulsing with life and something else, something that felt like hunger but deeper. The thing looked like the skin on boiled milk, and she almost gagged at the thought, recalling how she once stood on a stool barely reaching the stove to heat up some milk in a pan. Her mother hadn’t come home again, and all that the fridge held was a dried-out onion and a carton of milk past its best. She remembered thinking that heating it would rid it of its smell, how the milk foamed like spat out toothpaste when it boiled over, how her throat closed as though gripped in a tight fist when she gulped down the scalding milk, skin and all.
She placed the open tub onto her bed and knelt on the floor beside it. Her bedroom walls were pasted with torn out pages from magazines and catalogues of things she wanted, people she wanted and wanted to be. Centrefold posters of pop stars sat alongside pages filled with furniture – clean bedrooms with matching bedsheets and lampshades, living rooms with sofas, oversized and spilling softness. The faded pages wrinkled and peeled away from the damp patches they covered. She needed no time at all to know what it was she wanted. She wanted to be seen the way the faces on her walls were seen. She wanted to be beautiful. Beautiful people, people like her mother, weren’t ignored, they didn’t yearn for anything. She looked nothing like her mother.
She looked up at the wall and then back at the tub. Maja said to touch it and then make her wish but the thought of touching this thing gave her the sensation of an ice cube being dropped down the back of her school shirt. Maja had seemed surprised that she was so receptive to the idea of this flower and of wishes, but Maja knew nothing about her, not really. Maja knew nothing of her desperation to fill the void left by prayer. She had long outgrown of prayer, her knees wrecked from nights spent kneeling on the patchy carpet in her bedroom the way she was taught to in assembly, hands clasped together, eyes squeezed shut, head pressed against the thin mattress, air moist with her supplications, eyes closed so tightly she grew dizzy, white orbs emerging out of the black. These must be my angels, she thought, remembering how her teachers told her that angels visit all children who said their prayers. Please, she begged them, please, please, as she pressed her knuckles deeper into her eye sockets willing more angels to come, and when they came, she learned that pain was the price of prayer. So, she prayed with her teeth sinking into the soft dough of her lip until she tasted heat and rust. She prayed with fingertips, vice like on her lashes, prayer not complete until a few gave way, nose burning, eyes streaming.
The next morning, she had come down to find her mother sat at the kitchen table, lurid stripes of pink thick across her cheekbones. She can remember the exact moment she stopped believing in prayer, stepping into the kitchen, fried fat clinging to the air, her mother licking congealing yolk from the corner of her mouth. It was then, when she realised that nothing had changed. Like every other morning, her mother handed her a bowl containing a single wheat biscuit fattening in warm water. Her mother’s calm voice when she issued her command of, eat, sometimes adding, stop crying. She pulled her chair up close, eyes fixed on her child’s mouth watching her daughter spoon in mouthful after bland mouthful.
The thought lands in her mind like a thud. It is cold. How it can possibly be cold, she has no idea. The air in the bathroom is thick and still, her cigarette smoke smearing a solid line towards the ceiling. She lifts her foot out of the scummy water, gives the hot tap a twist, noting the blue chipped nail varnish and three thick blades of hair on her big toe which she’ll need to shave before she gets out. As the water gushes and her face prickles with sweat, she wishes she had a glass of water on the stool. The cleaning spray she used to scrub the tub clean before she filled it barely masks the perpetual scent of piss that lingers in the room like an awkward joke. She hates sharing this place with three other men, but what choice does she have? Her mother had left her nothing. Fried garlic and the heavy push-pull of a reggaeton baseline leaks in through the single- paned window from next door. The alarm goes on her phone goes off. She silences it and begins to pick at the edges of the clingfilm peeling it from her head.
Her skin doesn’t feel right against the crushed velvet dress she bought yesterday for this date. It is far too warm to keep on the velvet jacket that came with the dress so removes it and drapes on the back of her chair. She rubs at her bare shoulder, is still a moment, itches her collarbone, rubs her shoulder again. It isn’t the fact that the dress is a size too small, her skin always feels like this after she peels the thing from her, before she sinks it into the tannin liquid in its tub. Pulling the heft of it back under her bed took more effort these days, soon she’ll need to find a bigger tub. Laurie seems unfazed by her fidgeting and charity shop fug rising from her dress though he likely can’t smell it over the stale beer clinging to the carpets. She catches him looking at her hand which itches briefly at the neck. You look beautiful, he says. She looks down. Shall I get us more beers? he asks, then chugs down the remaining half of his pint, spilling a little into his beard before burping into a closed mouth, cheeks inflating like puffer fish. Yes please, sorry, bit nervous, she says, fingers splayed at her neck as though to supress the mottled blush creeping towards her face. Laurie gets up and heads to the bar then returns with their drinks. He is speaking again before he’s even sat down, flecks of spit landing on the table, her glass, her hand. She is looking at a dot of spit on her knuckle when he tells her once again that he doesn’t usually date women her age, a look on his face that reminds her of a dog who knows he’s been a very good boy. She smiles, conscious of the sweat gathering between her breasts. The underwire of her bra has started digging into her ribs and she catches a soft echo of smoky ham from her armpits whenever she lifts her glass up to her mouth. A plate is placed down in front of her. I like a girl that can eat! he says. She sinks her knife into the rare steak, a steady flow of weak pink pooling towards her chips. She takes a mouthful as he tells her about his most recent crypto currency investment. She nods but isn’t listening, instead she counts the number of times she must chew (twelve) before she swallows. Her fork clatters onto the plate, her hand a fist pressed firmly against her mouth. I’m fine, she says, just bit of wind, then she drains her beer, only her second but something feels different, she feels blanketed in lead. Later, when she joins him in the beer garden for a cigarette, she is violently sick over her jacket sleeve.
Let me help you, you poor thing, is it this one here with the blue door? Ok, Ok easy, let me grab those keys for you. It has started to rain. She knows this because her keys were wet in her hand before they fell to the ground. It’s her face, she can’t feel her face. They emerge into a darkened hallway. One of her housemates is in the kitchen but she can’t make out which one.
Alright, mate! Laurie calls to him, angling her body then gently shoving her upstairs.
A thing covers her. She isn’t awake, she isn’t asleep. She can barely breathe but doesn’t make to move, hardly makes a sound.
After a short while he says, I love you, then rolls off of her and lies on his back catching his breath. She thinks she will be sick again. A few moments later he is open mouthed and snoring. She feels a rush of warmth spilling from her between her legs and slowly makes her way up, out across the hallway and towards the bathroom. She knocks on the door, waits. There is a flush and immediately the door swings open. Housemate Adam takes one look at her, grins, points at the hem of her dress that has ridden up to expose her thigh and bare hip. Good night, was it? he says, but she doesn’t reply, just stares at his unwashed hand. Right, he says, shaking his head then stomps down the stairs. She pulls the dress back down and locks the door behind her. Once alone, she smiles. Laurie is perfect. She begins to run a bath.
She tries shaking him awake but when that doesn’t work, she grabs a fist full of beard and pushes his jaw up to close his mouth and holds her hand there until he sputters awake. Sorry, I must have drifted off, he says, then sits up in bed. What time is it? He asks. It’s late, or early,
depends how you’re looking at it, she says. He props himself up on his elbows, squints. He sniffs, dips his head to sniff himself, lifts his head and sniffs again. The vomit jacket lies sprawled across the floor at the foot of the bed. I’ve got you something, she whispers. He scratches his beard and grins, oh yeah, what’s that then? then slides his hand around her waist. She pushes him away and stands. He heaves himself up and begins searching for his underwear, but she stops him. Come on, she says. Like this? He looks down at his pale skin tinged with blue, the shock of tight orange curls beneath his naval. Yes, come on. The house is silent and dark now, the only light coming from the glaring white strip at the bottom the bathroom door. Once on the other side, she slides the small bolt lock. He looks at her like he is waiting for her to undress. She clasps her hands behind her back. Get in, she says, pointing at the filled tub. He steps towards the bath then pauses. What is that? he asks, tilting his chin towards the water and the membrane like sheet floating on top. It seems agitated when he turns his gaze upon it. She looks at him as he turns away from her, head bent to get a better look at what is in the water. She takes him in, the pebble dash of freckles across his back, the square bulk of him. He will be enough, she thinks. What is that? he asks again, stepping into the water. A flower, she says.
A flower?
A gift, she says to the thing in the bath, watching Laurie step into the tub and submerge himself. Are you not joining? he asks. No, she says, I like to watch.
Starting from between his legs, the thing in the water encompasses him. She isn’t looking at his legs though, she is looking at his face. Her favourite part is when their expression shifts from confusion to knowing. His mouth is open, face pulled into a yell, veins bulging at his neck, but no sound comes out. She sits down at the base if the sink, leans her head back against the pedestal and strokes the frills of fungus, her buttocks damp from the bathmat, the scent of mildew rising from the lino to meet her. She glances down at the fungus. Can you hear him? she wonders. Within minutes, he is tightly encased, his face, his head the last to be subsumed. In an hour or two when everything has dissolved and all that will remain in the bath water is that thing, she will look in the mirror and see an unlined face, a thicker hairline. The tally lines that score her lips will be gone. The skin on her neck and hands will be smooth. She will hesitate to touch it as she always does after it feeds, hands flinching at the idea of a scalding acid burn that never comes when she eventually grips at it whispering, thank you. For now, she continues to watch, thinking all the while of her mother sat inches away from her face as she would spoon in mouthfuls of cereals.